


The Ringer

by Willdew



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, M/M, Pitch Perfect AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willdew/pseuds/Willdew
Summary: Pitch Perfect AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [followbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/followbutterfly/gifts).



“Now, Charles, you realize I must attend your inaugural performance in a week’s time. There is simply no question of your talking me out of it.” Sharon Xavier’s actions with her cutlery were polite as they were savage, sharp incisions into the _steak au poivre_ showing just what she thought of her first-born’s choice in extracurricular activities. Perfect finishing school manners were a thin veneer over the _mourning-rage-inconsolable-regret_ radiating from her every pore as they always were, since the day they placed his father in the ground.  


Charles winced and swallowed; took a sip of the wine proffered by a silent but slightly trembling maid to his left. She was young, probably born a year or two after he was, and considering serving her resignation later this week, thinking _this scene is such a drag_ and _I don’t need the bread that much this is too freaky for me this lady is wig city I really shoulda split after the first day._ Charles felt a strange mingling of sympathy for and indignation against the girl. On one hand, he didn’t enjoy other people thinking about his mother that way. On the other, it was her third month, after all… and Sharon tended to scare them off once per season with increasing regularity.  


“Yes, mother. I mean, no, that is, you needn’t travel all the way.”  


“Child, the trip into New York proper is hardly a trek to the West Indies,” Sharon admonished. “Quite frankly, I could do without the insinuation that I am an invalid.”  


“I – I know. I shan’t let you down.” Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. Conversing with the _mater familias_ never failed to germinate the beginnings of a _migraine vulgaire_ , signalled by the sensation of pressure building behind his eye sockets. He should have refused to visit home over the break, he thought belatedly. But then, such disloyalty would no doubt not go unpunished. Best to take his lumps when he could and get it over with, sort of thing. “But I do say, if you would permit me, I rather think you’ll enjoy the selections we’ve made—“  


“Be that as it may. You represent a legacy, Charles. Need I explain the concept to you?”  


_Your actions mar the happiest memories of my life,_ Charles heard, unbidden. He looked down at his uneaten asparagus; swallowed. He hadn’t meant to hear his mother’s most intimate thoughts and how her recollections of being a Bella were entangled, in her mind, with those of happier days, from when his father had been alive.  


“Look – I know how you feel about my singing. But I’m good… _we’re_ good, because we coordinate so well.” He smiled. His telepathy was an ace in the hole and he’d long ago given up on worrying about it being cheating, because it felt so right, and _proper_ and he just knew that once Sharon saw them take the international acapella trophy home – or at least, come close to it – she would be proud of him, perhaps for the first time in her life… maybe not to the extent where she proclaimed her love of her baby boy from the rooftops, he was a bit old for that level of praise anyhow… but he would settle for her starting to see him as something other than a reminder of his late father and perhaps having a reason to leave the manse now and again in lieu of languishing about like Mrs. Haversham from _Great Expectations_.  


“How on earth you managed to infiltrate the time-honoured institution, while your sister managed to evade such responsibilities –” Sharon continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was projecting hurtful thoughts at her son and that the help was doing their best not to stare. “I mean to say, really, child. By what appellation am I meant to call you? Are you now both my ‘sister’ and my son?”  


“Mother,” Charles interrupted. He tried to sound gentle, here, but his patience with this particular topic was fast waning. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. The Barden Bebops are an equal-opportunity acapella group. Barden itself hasn’t been an all-girls’ college since the second-to-last year of the war.”  


“Hmf. That remains to be seen. Just don’t embarrass this family, that is all I ask.”  


Charles dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. His mashed potatoes and a good deal of the vegetables remained, but his appetite was often a casualty of Sharon’s brand of maternal affection. “I wouldn’t dream of it, mother.”  


_Square_ , thought the maid.  


And then, _but maybe a homophile?_  


And then: _I wonder how Johnny’s doing? I wonder if he can still get me a job at the diner? I mean, they won’t be able to pay as much or anything, but those cherry sodas are pretty swell...._  


Charles departed with a snort to cover his impending hysterics. His mother needed to visit a clinic for her alcoholism, he knew, but Kurt, Raven, and Cain all disagreed, and nobody listened to him in this family.  


He longed to be back at school, singing his heart out.  


Sleep came to him easily that night.  


***

Charles huffed as he ran the rest of the way from the bus stop to the Orchestral building and auxiliary room 321B where the Bebops were midway through their fiftieth practice of the year – with only three to go until the quarter-finals.  


Barden was a great school. Everywhere, Charles saw evidence of the future reaching out to tear down old prejudices. Here, a black girl holding hands with her fair-skinned partner. There, a group of flower children sitting in a circle on the library’s lawn, bell-bottoms dragging on the ground and Indian spices wafting in the air as they passed Buddhist rosaries around. And there, a group of girls with mod haircuts and mini-skirts, thinking loudly about their latest maths test and how well they’d all done – at least two of them speculating that perhaps they’d apply for their Master's degrees next year. Everywhere, he heard snatches of thought, almost entirely produced by young, open, and inquiring minds.  


It was cool, groovy, far-out, and nothing at all like his childhood or what he expected a stuffy ivy league college would have been. He was glad to “coast” here, even if his mother and Kurt both disapproved.  


In fact, to be honest… he thrived on it.  


In contrast, the Westchester property, like his mother, was firmly grounded in a past so _past_ that it hardly seemed to register the last few decades at all. The only records his mother and Kurt ever listened to were the classics, although he knew Sharon had flirted with big band and jazz numbers in her college years when she’d met his father.  


“Charles!” Hank leapt up from his place at the head of the room. Around him, cries of BOMP BOMP BA BOMP and RAMALAMA DING DONG cut off abruptly.

The guys (and girls) were all glad to see him; it was obvious from their expressions - both mental and physical - that they were relieved to have him back. It was such a gratifying feeling, to be not only accepted, but _wanted_.

“Thank goodness!" Hank said. "I was doing my best, but you always handle the solos better!”  


“Nonsense!” Charles protested, although honestly, he was quite flattered. “Sorry I’m late, everyone. Shall we start again?”  


Hank pushed up his coke-bottle glasses and tossed Charles the pitch pipe, and the Barden Bebops began to sing, their movements more animated than before. They went through their Chubby Checker medley (which combined _Let’s Do The Twist_ with _Let’s Twist Again_ and _The Fly_ ). This carried, naturally, into their somewhat cheeky rendition of _Mr. Sandman_ and _Lollipop_ by the Chordettes (which was really quite a naughty arrangement, since they'd kept the lyrics _let **him** be the cutest / I’ve ever seen_ for the male baritones, giving the “instrumental” parts to the girls in the group instead; the risqué nature of this arrangement was only compounded by the fact that Alex and Armando both really tended to get quite _physical_ with their gestures when making the “pop” sound, not to mention the glances they gave one another which bordered on scandalous). Finally, the Bebops finished up with _Stand By Me_ , by which point Charles was so keyed up, he found himself wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  


“Aww, someone got emotional!” Angel made a sympathetic noise, pinching Charles’ cheek. “Aww, _Princesita._ Was going home really that bad?”  


Charles batted her hand away. “Cut it out.” But he smiled while he said it.  


“Yeah, man, why does he get to be the princess? Maybe I wanna be the princess here.” Armando cut in, laying on an approximation of Angel’s accent. They both shortly thereafter launched into an argument in slightly different dialects of Spanish, neither of which Charles truly understood, although from the tenor of their thoughts he could tell neither of them truly meant anything they said, and were just arguing both to enjoy their multilingual heritage and to show off a little.  


“All right, gang, I think that’s a wrap for tonight. See you bright and early.”  


He loved being part of an accepting group like this.  


***  


It was a mistake to watch the competition, Charles knew, but he couldn’t help it. He peered out at the group of pale gentlemen on stage from his place behind the curtain. A bit farther off, he could see his mother, seated in the front row with both Raven and Cain in tow. Kurt was notably (and, if he were honest with himself, thankfully) absent.  


“Oh, wow, is that the group from the Jewish college? I heard they have a ringer.” Angel whispered, nudging up behind him, peering through Charles’ curtain crack by nudging her head into his armpit.  


“Hey!” he whispered. “Do you mind?”  


“You shouldn’t be watching them,” Alex remonstrated from his place behind him. “Guys, we should be meditating and focusing our chakras, blocking the bad energy out.”  


“Don’t listen to him, his philosophy teacher has him doing that meditation stuff, but if you ask me, it’s all loco.” Armando sniffed. “Oh, wow, that guy in the front, he’s got a _face,_ doesn’t he?”  


“Who’s got a _face?_ ” Alex interrupted, having abandoned his spiritual pursuits in lieu of petty jealousy. “That guy? He’s all right, I guess….”  


It was then that a facilitator shushed them and told the Bebops they needed to move back to the end of the stage. “You’re all being too loud,” the man said, waving his clipboard at them as if he could blow them away with the force of it. “Let the Yeshiva Yodellers do their number, or I’ll have you all disqualified.”  


Angel snorted. “The _what?_ ”  


And then it started, and the smile abruptly fell from her face.  


Charles was riveted. The Yeshiva group was good. And their soloist was… something better than good. They’d started off with a slow build up to something he couldn’t quite pinpoint… something that sounded like folk music, or perhaps it was pop, or maybe soft rock? But then it kind of… exploded… and Charles felt knocked almost physically back, winded even, by how powerful the music was.  


_"Hebrew_ rock covers?" Angel whispered. The wheels in her head seemed to be turning.

Alex looked grim. "Mixed with some kinda gypsy folk jazz? Man, this is _crazy_. It's a completely original and unique bit, while still familiar enough to strike a note with the judges." He made a face. "They're hipper than we are. These cats could be trouble."

Charles knew he should be comforting his teammates, but the beauty of the lead had him captivated. He took in the strictly shorn hair with the ginger tinge, the way his brow furrowed in two deep creases when he shut his eyes, giving himself entirely over to the music. It shouldn't have been so heart-stoppingly erotic, but somehow, it was. And there was something about the harsh cut of the man's jaw and cheekbones that spoke of a harsher life, and the waves of passionate sorrow rolling off him were like nothing Charles had ever experienced, sharp and tangible and roiling and yearning, like an invisible knife right to the chest. "Oh, I don't know... we'll be... we'll...." Charles licked his lips and turned away, searching for composure. He gave the others his sunniest smile. "We just need to do our best. We'll be fine."  


_Sorry, mother…_ he thought, wishing not for the first time that she could actually hear and respond back.  


Getting to internationals was going to be much harder than Charles had initially anticipated.

**Author's Note:**

> So, added some edits in based on comments received! Hope that the additions to the story meet everyone's approval. :) As always, constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
> Also, here are some links to music referenced by Charles in this story:  
> [Who Put the Bomp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXmsLe8t_gg) by Barry Mann.  
> [The Twist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHGXwQeUk7M) by Chubby Checker.  
> [Let's Twist Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh8eb_ACLl8) by Chubby Checker.  
> [The Fly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwePz7cOxJ8) by Chubby Checker.  
> [Mister Sandman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNUgsbKisp8) by the Chordettes.  
> [Lollipop](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rYoRaxgOE0) by the Chordettes.
> 
> And here are some Hebrew covers of music from the 1950s/60s (you can imagine Erik and 1950s versions of The Brotherhood singing any of them):  
> [Dream a Little Dream of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cEVe03OjDo) by the Hebrew Cover Project.  
> [Hava Nagila/The Twist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhCrC5xltTM) by Chubby Checker.
> 
> And this is the Klezmer stuff I was imagining the Yeshiva Yodellers working in (probably not period-appropriate or gender appropriate, but this is the style I was thinking of):  
> [Barcelona Gipsy Klezmer Orchestra - Djelem Djelem.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCUv9W0ViRc) (Also, I realize "gypsy" is considered by many to be a racial slur and "romani" is preferred, but I figured in the 1950s, it's period-appropriate for Alex not to know any better so please forgive the use of the word.)


End file.
